I’m standing on the ground floor looking up at two giant walls of jeans. They rise like phoenixes out of the shag carpet that’s threatening to swallow my platform sandals whole. The jeans are folded and stacked neatly in wooden cubbies that reach skyward into a kind of denim heaven. Or is it he ll? Because standing guard in front of them are three impossibly cool teenage sales associates. They perch on a shoulder-height ledge that runs around the perimeter of the store. Together, they’re like Cerberus the multi-headed dog, the one who prevented the dead, or in this case, the denim, from leaving. Each is dressed in a different version of what matters — hip hugger bell bottoms, classic 501s, carpenter pants. And they peer down at me like some lowly bug they’re about to squash. Was I intimidated? Yes. Did I want the Levi’s they were gatekeeping? A thousand times, yes. I ask for a few pairs to try on. And only then am I granted access to the stairway that ascends to the second-floor fitting rooms, distressed-wood cubicles designed to look like vintage outhouses. Each has a small sliver of a moon on the door, presumably to allow Cerberus a discreet peek inside for further silent judgment. Finally, I’m alone. Just me and the jeans that are about to change my life forever. The perfect pair of 501s — the ones with the orange tab — not the red one. The medium-blue wash I’d later bastardize with a bottle of bleach in the bathtub. The great equalizer: We all put our Levi’s on one leg at a time even if the leather tag stitched on the back told the world specifically how long or short that leg was. Back then, if you couldn’t rock a size 25, you could always fix the tag with an eraser and a black Bic. Worse come to worse, you could just cut it off. But fitting into new jeans was more about fitting into a certain club. Navigating the rules of who or what was in or out. Denim was never neutral. It was Levi’s or nothing. God help you if your mother bought you Wranglers or — the teenage death sentence — Sears Toughskins. I put the jeans on and walked out of the outhouse, finally one of them. Whether they liked it or not, even Cerberus couldn’t deny me now. It’s funny to think about how jeans, and specifically Levi’s, have evolved. From their beginnings in 1853 as work wear for miners and cowboys, the humble blue jean became the ultimate statement of personal style. From Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Bruce Springsteen, Kurt Cobain and Barack Obama to Kendall Jenner and Harry Styles. Pressed, paint-spattered, thrashed, patched or rolled. Dressed up or dressed down. Skinny or baggy. It’s not so much about what you wear, but how you wear it. Jeans can mean anything. They let you be anything. Even their absence conveys volumes. Years ago, my ex and I belonged to a swanky country club that forbade tube tops, halters, strapless tops and skirts shorter than a dollar-bill’s length from the knee. The published dress code also prohibited “dungarees, denim blue jeans,” just in case there was any confusion about the matter. But once a year, the club relaxed the code to host a much-anticipated event called “Denim and Diamonds.” That’s when the ladies and gentlemen of the club really let their hair down. And so it goes with jeans. One day they’re the grass-stained dungarees of the grounds crew, and the next they’re a $1,600 pair of flared Celine jeans that got Kendrick Lamar named the “true winner of Super Bowl 2025.” Which is to say, jeans can mean just about anything. It all depends on who’s looking. And that’s the problem. There are those who insist on deciding what a pair of jeans means for you, as if what we wear can be recalibrated into a split-second judgment that’s used against us. Like an Italian teenager who was raped in the early ’90s. The man who assaulted her later got off on the appeal that the young woman’s jeans were so tight, she’d have had to willingly remove them. The women of the Italian parliament called bullshit and wore denim to work in solidarity. Today, the case is recognized every April on World Denim Day — the last day of Sexual Assault Awareness Month. Clothing is not consent. It can convey support, resistance, creativity, mood. It’s utterly personal. And spoiler alert: It’s not always for the male gaze. Sometimes we dress for our friends, for our co-workers, or even the stranger in the bathroom who exclaims, Ooh, I love your outfit! Sometimes, it’s purely for ourselves. For me these days at least, the stairway to heaven is once again paved with perfect vintage 501s. Yes, I’m still looking. And no, this time there are no gatekeepers, dress codes or “one pair fits all.” Denim is what you make of it. Or at least, it should be. The post Betty Diaries: Heaven, hell and the perfect pair of Levi’s appeared first on Park Record. ...read more read less